How can you describe the procession of a life of nights in this swamp.
The night has me,
sleep will wait.
It's so fucking nice out. I can't even write the usual poetry.
I'm going to go take a long walk and look at the stars
I'm going to time travel.
I'll be back soon.
sometimes I find myself laying on the side of the road bleeeding and pick myself up and say "Now why'd you go and do a goddamn thing like that?"

"Which part?"

"All of it! You're a maniac! You are absolutely insane! I never dreamed it would end up like this..."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"It's nice out."

"Yeah."

"We should walk now."

"Yeah."

"You're going to have fucked up dreams again tonight."

"I know. It's getting kind of exciting. I never know what to expect but it's always so much the same. Aliens, oceans, x-girlfriends and dead relatives, flying, tornados. That's about it."

"A man could get used to a world like that."

"Tell me about it. You know, I don't say this much at all, but I love you."

"I love you too. Fuck those band-aids. I'm fine. Let's walk."

"Word."

"Word."